


Scissors, Swords, and Sheaths

by VerbenaHA



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Backstory, Book Spoilers, Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Mild Language, Pre-Canon, Safe For Work, Spoilers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerbenaHA/pseuds/VerbenaHA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurent has a couple skill sets Damen did not know about...</p><p>I read the first volume of Captive Prince and immediately wrote this. Three chapters of spoilers, but entirely fanfiction, including my interpretation of the battle of Marlas. The original book is explicitly mature, however this story is SFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scissor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you honestly think I am going to let you anywhere near me with a pair of scissors?”
> 
> Just some bonding between mortal enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the final chapter of Captive Prince, volume one.

Sometimes waking up in the middle of the night was exciting. Perhaps a dream had woken Damen up, or the occasional thunderstorm. Perhaps his younger brother, Prince Kastor, had snuck into his room for the night so they could continue a talk that had been interrupted earlier in the day. However, that was a long time ago. Since arriving as a prisoner in Vere, being awoken so late at night never meant anything good. As Prince Laurent barged into his room sometime before dawn, Damen steeled himself for whatever he planned on saying to him.

“Tomorrow, you are riding to Delpha with me.” That was all the prince said, standing well out of range of Damen’s area of movement.

“What?” Damen said. Suddenly wide awake, he clutched the collar chained at his throat and tried to determine whether or not he was dreaming. He focused his gaze on Laurent’s face but, in a sleepy daze, was overwhelmed by what he saw.

“ _What_?” Laurent asked with a much sharper and harsher tone than his prisoner. Damen sat up and rubbed his eyes, staring at Laurent’s head.

“You have had your hair cut,” Damen mumbled, a little in awe. Laurent glanced away, distracted for a moment, and then put his hands on his hips.

“Yes, I cut my hair. Stay focused now, are you prepared to ride tomorrow?”

“I… yes, I think so. I can ride,” said Damen before adding; “It looks good.”

“What does?”

“Your hair,” Damen stood up and tried to take in everything. He was going to Delpha? He would leave Vere and be free? And Laurent had his hair cut?

“Who did it?” he asked.

“I did.”

Damen snorted. “No, really.” Laurent just shook his head and started to turn away and leave. Damen yawned, though he felt he would get no more sleep knowing he would be out of this room and out in the sunlight, riding south within a day.

“It was wise,” he said, lying back down. “Whoever cut it really has a talent for it. It’ll be more practical to ride with your bangs out of your eyes.” Laurent stopped.

“I know that’s why I cut it this way.”

“Since when do you cut hair?” Damen asked, incredulously.

“Since I was thirteen.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t have to prove it to you.” Laurent took another step forward… Then he stopped and turned around, staring hard at Damen. Somehow he looked both amused and thoroughly irritated. His crystal blue eyes did not match the viper sneer on his lips. He seemed to be thinking something over and suddenly came to a conclusion. “Okay,” he said, a vicious smile twisting his mouth. “I am going to humor you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to give you three guesses to the question as to why I cut my hair. Guess correctly and I will prove to you my skill with comb and scissors.”

“How?” He was looking at Laurent’s hair, still perfectly parted and pretty for a prince to wear, but very short. He couldn’t imagine it would look any better if it was cut even shorter...

But Laurent waved a finger at Damen’s face. “Those bangs have looked better.”

Damen sat back and almost laughed. “Do you honestly think I am going to let you anywhere near me with a pair of scissors?”

“Do you think I would give you a choice?” Laurent stepped forward. “This is the bet. Guess correctly and I will give you the best haircut of your life. But if you refuse, and I will ensure that you ride to Delpha shaved.”

“You would do it, to,” Damen muttered. “And what if I guess wrong?”

Laurent held out his hands in view. “Then you will never get to see what these wrists can do.”

“You mean slit themselves?” Laurent’s expression became dangerously dark and he frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Guess.”

Damen sighed through his nose. “You cut your hair… because you didn’t like the servant that used to cut it for you?”

“Wrong, guess again.”

Damen almost snapped his fingers: “Because it bothers the Regent!”

“Wrong. Well, it does bother uncle quite a bit however that is not the answer. One more chance, and please do not throw this one away. Just think about it.”

Damen did think about it, but what could a thirteen year old prince be thinking that could make him want to take up the practice of styling hair? At the time, his and Damen’s homelands had been at war and…

Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in his gut, Damen thought he had found his answer.

“Because your brother used to cut it for you?” he asked.

Laurent was very still for a moment. Then he blinked once. Twice.

“I did wish you would just give up. Too much to hope for,” Laurent sighed. “Sit there and wait.” Laurent left and came back some time later with a servant carrying a stand up mirror. He held a pair of scissors and comb in his hand, a towel draped over one arm. Damen flinched.

“Sit still,” Laurent said, “and I will have your chains removed. Make any movement, and I’ll tie you down like a dog.” Damen sat on the floor with his legs crossed, facing the mirror, while a guard came in to unchain him.

“Leave us,” Laurent said, and the two of them were left alone. He handed Damen the towel: “Put this around your shoulders.” Damen did so, the only movement he had made since the guard had entered to unbind him. Laurent pulled up a pillow and sat on his knees, brushing through Damen’s bed head and combing out the small tangles before he slowly brought the scissors up and started snipping.

Every now and then Laurent glanced at his handiwork in the mirror for only a moment, never making eye contact. The only time Damen looked up at Laurent’s reflection, he could see the calm determination in his face. It took a while before Damen noticed a change in his looks but he admitted to himself that his hair was starting to look very, very nice. Despite all the other care taken to his body and his looks, the hair on Damen’s head had not been cut since his arrival in Vere and he wondered why.

His thoughts turned to Laurent and that the man cut his own hair because his older brother was no longer there to cut it for him. Actually, it made a lot of sense, considering all of the attempts on his life: excluding one more method a person could approach his throat with a sharp object was another way to survive. But why would his brother, the crowned prince, be cutting hair in the first place? Because the two brothers were just incredibly close? Because he had a secret hobby and he used Laurent for practice? Whatever the reason, after his brother’s death, Laurent had taken on the job of cropping his hair himself instead of letting the servants do it. Did his brother have time to teach Laurent the craft before he died, or did Laurent have to practice blindly, cutting his hair unevenly at first?

The whole thing made Damen feel even more self-conscious about sitting this intimately with Laurent. It was quiet. The air in the room was claustrophobic and Damen had the urge to move around and to get away from him and his scissors. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again.

“What is it?” Laurent asked, not looking up. He kept on cutting. “I want a good reason to slit your throat right now.”

“You do not want to hear me talk,” Damen said quietly.

“Maybe I do. I said you couldn’t move, I didn’t say you couldn’t talk. Why, are you going to insult my skill?”

“No.”

“What is it then? You’ve looked thoughtful this whole time.”

“Your brother—” Laurent stopped abruptly and met Damen’s gaze in the mirror, still holding up a lock of uncut hair in his hands.

“What about him?”

“All I was going to say is that you must have really loved each other.”

Laurent was very still for a moment. He blinked once then continued with his work. Whenever he glanced into the mirror, he met Damen’s gaze briefly.

“You still look like you want to say something, what is it?” Laurent asked. His voice was tight and Damen tried to choose his words very carefully.

“Your brother used to cut your hair and it must have meant a lot to you, since you never let anyone else cut your hair since.”

“I have good reason to,” Laurent said darkly, holding the blade of the scissors right up to Damen’s neck. Reflexively, he leaned back, ready to fight, but his head stopped against Laurent’s chest. “You know now,” Laurent added. “You have seen what my uncle and his men are doing. I cannot trust anyone.”

“I lost a brother too,” Damen said suddenly. The words flew out of his mouth.

“While battling in Marlas?” Laurent asked, unmoved, still holding the blade to Damen’s throat.

“No, no. After that. All I was going to say is that I know how this feels—”

“You know how _what_ feels?”

“What not being able to trust your family feels like,” Damen said a little more quickly. “I do, it is horrifying. But I believe your brother must have taken very good care of you— I bet he looked out for you and you could trust him. Maybe he promised he would always be there for you.”

Abruptly, Laurent pulled the scissors away, grabbed a lock of Damen’s bangs and snipped them crudely. Damen let out an exasperated sigh.

“Very sexy,” he said grimly. At least Laurent was not holding the blade to his throat anymore.

“My brother never made promises he couldn’t keep,” Laurent said while he combed Damen’s bangs and recut them more evenly.

“That was wise of him,” Damen said. He let out his breath slowly and quietly.

“Except one,” Laurent added. He slipped the comb and the scissors into a pocket and turned away.

“Which… was?”

“He promised he would protect me.” Laurent called for the servant to come and remove the mirror. After the servant walked out, he turned back to Damen and said, “You and I have something in common.”

“Which is what?”

“At the end of the day, we have no one to trust but ourselves.”

Damen swallowed. It stung because sometimes it felt true in a scary way, and yet Damen knew it was not.

“I trusted you to cut my hair,” he said very gently. “Just as you are trusting me to follow you and ride to Delpha.”

“I have many reasons for that decision, but I cannot think of any reason you would want come except to escape this prison.”

“Because our homelands are in trouble?” said Damen irritably. “If the Regent’s scheme works, there will be war again.”

“But why do anything about it?”

“Because we can. The same reason we have saved each other’s lives already: because we could.”

“That’s not why I saved you.”

“And yet, it was much more trouble for you than it was for me. I think that counts for something.”

“You are impossible to understand,” Laurent said.

“That makes two of us,” said Damen.

Laurent sneered. “How do you like your hair?” he asked. Without a mirror, Damen could not look at it, but already he could tell that it felt lighter, cooler, and, more importantly, it would not bother him while he rode horseback.

“It’s very nice. You were telling the truth.”

Laurent said nothing to that. He dropped his gaze and turned to leave. His tone became even darker. “ _Sweet dreams,_ soldier,” he quipped.

“You too,” Damen bantered. “Try to clear up those dark circles under your eyes. They aren’t doing you any favors.”

“Try to clean up the hair on your floor or you will be itchy by morning.” Damen looked around him and realized Laurent had probably done this just so he would be made to lie on pillows covered in his own hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	2. Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not be arrogant, son. Do not. This is a dangerous moment to be overconfident.” 
> 
> NOTE: This chapter was written prior to reading books 2 and 3 of the series. This is an original telling of the battle of Marlas.

SIX YEARS AGO: THE BATTLE OF MARLAS.

 

A soldier had come to the Laurent’s tent: his older brother, a brave soldier, a clever man, and a beautiful prince. His tunic was filthy, the banner on his shield cracked in three places and there was a gash in his leg. Laurent sat on a small futon, alone. The other soldiers and attendants were keeping a close eye on his tent to rush to his help if Laurent needed it, but for the most part, they had other jobs to do. He squeezed a small doll between his fingers while the two stared at each other and tried to keep their voices level while they spoke.

“Have they told you?” the older brother said.

Laurent nodded bravely, trembling slightly. “Father…” he said, and his brother nodded back.

“Auguste!” the tiny prince jumped up and went to his brother’s arms. Auguste held him close, running his fingers through his brother’s short blonde hair, leaving streaks of mud and blood.

“Everything is in disarray right now. I have to reassemble the troops.”

“You will be on the front lines…”

“Hey now, I’ve got men to fight with me,” Auguste said with a smile. “We will do our father justice.”

“Where is _he_?”

“Still…” Auguste swallowed to keep his voice from breaking. Out on the field, the mind was almost unable to process the amount of death surrounding it: a soldier could be standing close by one moment and in the next, they would be gone. His father had fallen, dead, but the force of such a loss was more significant here, in this quiet tent, with his brother in his arms.

“He is still on the battlefield, Laurent, but not for long. He will have a proper burial.”

“I do not mean the king, I mean uncle. Where is he?”

“Uncle is someplace safe, I am sure,” Auguste said, a little too gently.

“That’s not what worries me,” Laurent said.

“What is it?”

“Will I see you again?”

Auguste’s brow furrowed for a moment, but he smiled genuinely. “I cannot promise I will come back, Laurent. I can’t. An Akielon might slay me or… I might die of an accident. But if I die, the throne is yours, you know that?” Laurent nodded quickly, searching his brother’s eyes for something more. “Here,” Auguste said. “I cannot promise I will always be with you, but I can promise that I will always be protecting you, even if you cannot see it. Here, give me that doll.” Laurent gave the tiny cloth figure he had made another squeeze and handed it over.

“You’re a bit old for dolls, but you did very well sewing this together. Your stitches have gotten much, much neater, I’m proud of you. One day you might need this talent, understand? Everything a servant can do a prince should be able to do too.”

Auguste said all this while he took a bracelet from off of his hand. Woven from Laurent’s preferred blue colored chord, a star shaped charm hung from it. He slipped it over the doll’s head and let it rest like a necklace on the cloth neck.

“Hold onto that, okay? Brother, my Little-Star, do not ever forget that I am protecting you.” Laurent smiled a little until he heard a shout from outside. Auguste squeezed his shoulders. “I don’t see why you came all the way out here, you could have cut your hair yourself, you are very adept at it now.”

“PRINCE AUGUSTE!” someone called desperately.

“Got to go. Like I said… it’s a mess.”

“Goodbye,” Laurent said, then he shuddered. Auguste stopped before the tent’s entrance. He looked over his shoulder and only winked before he left. Laurent could still here his voice as he gave orders to another soldier outside.

_“Jordin, if you see my signal, get Laurent out of here.”_

_“Yes, sire,”_ she replied.

Laurent went back to his futon and sat on his knees, shaking. The signal… after the battle had begun there was only one signal to look for: a messenger bird with a red flag hanging from its talons signaling the death of the king. Laurent’s father was dead and now Auguste was King. If Auguste died, the bird would fly again.

 

 

“They’re coming back?” Prince Damianos said. “Auguste must be taking charge.”

“Brave man, but foolish,” said a general in the Akielon army. “We have the upper hand.”

“Who fired that arrow?” King Theomedes asked. “The one that killed King Aleron?”

“No idea,” Damianos said. “It was not meant for him, but the wind changed its course. It was just a lucky shot.”

“There is no luck, only the gold thread of fate,” said the king. “But if Auguste is bringing his troops back, we need to be ready now.” Theomedes dismissed his officials with orders for each of them and left his tent. After a few steps, he bent over nearly double, coughing violently.

“Your Majesty!” Damianos said, holding his father up by one arm. “I’m fine, just another fit.”

“That’s one too many fits, father. Let me ride ahead of you.”

“No—” Theomedes countered.

“Why?”

“I do not envy Auguste for the loss of his father, but I would envy King Aleron even less for losing a son. Do not let me risk losing my firstborn.”

“I am not the only heir to Akielos, father, not anymore.”

“Your brother Kastor…”

“Yes,” Damianos said. His words tumbled out quickly while he spoke, “And besides, we have our men around us and we have the upper hand. Let me ride out to Auguste and both armies will see I am the better fighter.”

“I wonder…”

Damianos frowned. “Wonder what?”

“Auguste is making a very bold move, but it may be his only chance to get the upper hand. His troops have the higher ground, son, we only outnumber them.”

“Surely our shields and numbers will protect us from their bows and javelins,” the prince countered without a hint of fear.

“Do not be arrogant, son. Do not. This is a dangerous moment to be overconfident.” The king coughed again.

“Sire?” A captain walked up to them cautiously, looking concerned. “Orders?”

“Damianos will ride ahead,” the king replied in a hoarse voice. “Follow his command.”

“You will give me the chance?” Damianos said breathlessly.

“I do not know if you are a better fighter than Prince Auguste. Do not take unnecessary risks. But if you cut him down, Vere’s army will surely scatter again—they are cowardly vipers.”

“And they call us barbarians,” Damianos spat. “I will do our country justice.”

“King Aleron had one more son, do not forget that. Even if Auguste dies, Vere will have an heir.”

Damianos looked astounded: “Prince Laurent is thirteen,” he scoffed. “Do you expect him to be here?”

“I do not expect a prince as young as you to be here, Damianos,” his father said very quietly, “let alone a child.”

“YOUR HIGHNESS! VERE ATTACKS!” screamed an official.

“Better go, son,” Theomedes winked at Damianos and let another attendant hold his arm. “I think you will win this day.”

“Not only I, father, all of us,” Damianos said, mounting his horse. “I promise I will come back.”

King Theomedes had looked troubled, but now he seemed vexed. “Do not make promises you cannot keep,” he said sharply. “It is the sign of a bad leader and it worries me.”

“Even so, I promise,” said Damianos one last time before he kicked his horse and was off to the Front.

 

 

The fight was longer than anyone anticipated, yet in the aftermath, it seemed like no time at all. The Veretian archers were relentless against Akielon troops from their position on a hilltop. Damianos’ horse was down before Auguste’s. Their sigils on their battered shields visible from yards away, they made a beeline for one another.

“KEEP FIGHTING! WHATEVER HAPPENS TO ME, DO NOT RETREAT!” Damianos screamed before his sword met with Auguste’s and metal clashed with metal.

“FALL BACK TO THE TREES!” Auguste ordered. “KEEP THEM RUNNING UPHILL!”

A handful of soldiers lost their lives whilst they hesitated only for a moment to watch the heirs of two countries fight one on one. The two princes were disarmed more than once only to pick up another weapon from the cold hand of a fallen soldier beside them. Around them was the chaos of war, but together their dance of death absorbed their thoughts, their actions, their breath.

Damianos took advantage of a limp Auguste was battling with in his left leg; could see a wound there stretching bigger and bigger even as he weaved and spun effortlessly from Damianos’ every strike.

 _‘Trying to tire me out?’_ Damianos thought. _‘It won’t work!’_ With a shout, he ran forward without looking…

And tripped. Sprawled over a dead body so covered in mud that he had not noticed it, Damianos lost his sword while it dropped a full foot away. Limp or not, it was Auguste’s chance and he took it, running forward, sword raised above his head, ready to bring it down over Damianos’ neck in a fatal blow.

“SIRE!” a fellow soldier threw Damianos their blade and in that moment he had a weapon to hold over his head in defense. He felt the crunch of bone and muscle against the long blade just as the defenseless soldier next to him screamed and fell from the arrow of a Veretian crossbow. There was blood running down Damianos’ arm and, for a moment of dread, all he heard was a faint ringing in his ears. He lay there, stunned, unsure if Auguste’s reach had been enough to impale him…

He looked up. King Auguste was dead. The tip of Damianos’ borrowed sword caught—probably on a bone—and held up the body of the former prince. The inert hands went slack and the sword fell useless over Damianos’ back. With a jerk, Damianos lifted himself and let Auguste’s body fall to the ground. Pulling a pin of authority from the corpse’s shoulder, he held it aloft and cheered to his men, spurring them on until the army of Akielos had officially won the battle.

 

 

“PRINCE LAURENT!”

Jordin burst through the tent flap, her boots coated in mud, but not blood.

“What?” he said. He knew precisely what had happened and why Jordin was there, but still… he wanted to deny it. Just for one moment, let a lie take place of the truth.

Jordin stood still and watched him for a minute—could see the abstract terror in his face hidden under a mask of firm, cold authority. He had asked a question, but clearly he did not want an answer. For a moment, her composure abandoned her and her shoulders drooped, arms limp at her sides. She had expected the prince to put up a fight, perhaps by some miracle he could gather the remaining troops and—No. Even if it were plausible, those were not her orders. Laurent was the new and only heir to Vere and still too young to be on the battlefield, let alone fight, especially if she had anything to say about it.

“I swear,” she said. “My children will never go to a battle at your age.”

Laurent silently allowed her to pick him up and be carried outside, asking no more questions while they and several guards mounted horses to ride back to Vere. He was torn between the desire to search the sky for the bird and its mournful signal flag or to just shut his eyes and squeeze out the tears he did not want to let go of. Instead he kept his eyes focused on his doll with his brother’s parting gift still wrapped around its neck.

Jordin held his tiny body in front of her while they rode; the centerpiece in a circle of four other horsemen on a course for the closest allied city, and from there, back to the palace. Jordin’s last words were ringing through his head like the toll of a bell, making his heart race. He should not have come.

While the horses ran forward, away from the battlefield, he thought about what the real fight must have looked like. He had been allowed glimpses in the form of soldiers practicing their technique with one another, lining up along the field listening to their king give them a speech to improve morale, and charge forward. The ground shook with the hooves of horses and the feet of soldiers running hither and thither. Soon Laurent saw blood—lots of it—while the wounded were brought back to camp, some of them dead before they reached the medics.

Distracted by his thoughts, Laurent dropped the doll.

“STOP! WAIT!” he screamed, his voice ripped raw by the sheer force of it.

“ _What_?” said Jordin. Everyone halted and searched the trees for attackers, but Laurent let himself fall straight off the horse’s back.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!” Jordin screamed. Laurent made it back to his doll in four running strides, his long legs pushing him forward. The doll was soaked with mud, staining the white satin an ugly brown. Its arms were limp as though broken, its head lolling from side to side in his hands as though spineless. Laurent unceremoniously ripped his brother’s bracelet from around its neck and slid it onto his wrist effortlessly and up his arm until it could fit no further.

He turned and ran back to the horses where Jordin was screaming curses at him and left his toy on the battlefield. If only for a single moment, he tried to forget the sounds and smells and colors and hoped Auguste had not died by “accident.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "gold thread of fate" is actually a bad pun that makes more sense if you know about how slaves are trained in Akielos.
> 
> This was written with the assumption that King Theomedes and Prince Auguste were very, very good people. When I read the final two novels, who knows? Maybe I will find they weren't so great.  
> Also written with the assumption that both Laurent and Auguste were suspicious of their uncle even then.


	3. Sheath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was something my father used to say: ‘If soldiers are swords, the king is the sheath that carries them.’"
> 
> Takes place AFTER the final chapter of Captive Prince, volume one.

“You summoned, sire?” Jord asked, entering the prince’s tent.

“Yes,” Laurent said, looking up from his reports with a smile. It was warm, though his eyes were weary and sad; the expression of gratitude preceding a difficult battle. The ride from the palace had been arduous, but the heat bearing down on them was the real discomfort. In the meantime, somehow, the soldiers were struggling with various accidents: improper saddles, broken wheels on the carts, among other problems. “You deserve a reward.”

“A… what?”

“I don’t mean a promotion, unfortunately, although maybe you deserve that too,” Laurent said kindly. “I mean to give you something for your dedication to the crown—and also a small compensation for your injury.”

“Just a twisted ankle, sire,” Jord said with a wink. “I can still ride and, believe it or not, shoot a crossbow. I’ll be able to hold a sword too, when we make it to Delpha.”

“Well, be that as it may, I would like for you to take something. Kneel.” Jord did so. Laurent held out his arm and removed a bracelet of braided, blue chord from around his wrist, a star shaped charm hanging from it. Kneeling down so that he was eye level with Jord, he tied it around the soldier’s hand.

“This is… Wait a minute, I know what this is!” Jord said. Laurent raised his eyebrows.

“You… do?”

For a moment, Jord forgot himself. “Yes, you had this with you at the battle of Marlas,” he said in awe. “I’ve always wondered… what were you even doing there when you were so small?”

“Getting a haircut,” Laurent said curtly. Jord sighed.

“Will there never be an end to your riddles?”

“Depends, will you ever have faith in me?”

The two of them stood. “I do sire. My mother, Jordin, trusted you with her life. If faith in the crown was good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.” Laurent smiled a little, showing the tender side of him that he could not let Damen see: not yet. Maybe not ever. However— as crown prince— his allies, his countrymen, and his soldiers needed to know he was worth following. Jordin did, and now he knew Jord did too. The star charm dangled from Jord’s hand, knocking gently against the side of the sheath at his hip.

 _‘It’s good that this star will shelter us in battle,’_ Laurent thought. He was not in the least bit superstitious—at all—however, in his youth, the thought of Auguste giving the charm to him had doomed his fate was a nightmare that kept him up at night.

“On the other hand,” Jord said, giving the tiny star a little flick with his finger, “my mother told me about how you risked everything and jumped off a horse to go back for this. I always asked her why you did that, but she just said, ‘I hope you never have to understand why.’”

“I agree with her, I hope you don’t,” Laurent said, looking more genuinely upset. “It was a small gift from Prince Auguste that I had foolishly dropped on the road and I decided to keep it for his memory. It belongs on a soldier’s hand, and I believe you are just the one to carry it Jord. Will you?”

Jord was stunned speechless for a moment. Then he saluted his prince and said, “Any more orders, sire?”

“Send Damianos here—” Jord shrank back and gawked.

“Sire?” he asked. “You mean the dead Prince Damianos from Akielos?”

“No, I mean Damen,” said Laurent quickly. “Summon him and make sure your men get rest. That’s all.”

“Uh… You too,” said Jord as he left the tent. Laurent sat down and stared at his wrist. He did not touch the place his brother’s charm had been but instead stared at the way the skin around it had tanned in the sunlight, leaving a faint ring and an even fainter star shape over his pulse point.

Damen entered the tent quietly, but after a few minutes where neither of them spoke, he broke the silence.

“You know Jord has your bracelet?”

“Observant, Damen. Nothing escapes you,” Laurent said bitterly, not looking at him. Although, it was a particularly small detail and impressive that Damen had noticed—unless Jord had showed it off, in which case, Damen was just being crass.

“I was worried,” Laurent said, changing the subject, “that you would be too exhausted to ride when we left the palace, but you looked ready to move a mountain when I saw you.”

“I hardly slept,” Damen admitted. “I think what kept me awake was the feeling of having a proper sheath and a weapon in it for once… and wearing armor and clothes for the first time in weeks.”

“Ugly clothes.”

“You were the one who picked them out,” Damen countered. “I’m just grateful they were not overly elaborate like your usual robes. Did you give Jord your bracelet?”

“Shut up.”

“No, really, I’ve seen you wear it three times but only in private and if you didn’t like it you would not have kept it. Why give it away?”

Laurent stared at Damen for a long time. “I need to keep you locked up more often. You are far, far too perceptive when you walk free.” Damen stood straight with his gaze set, unmoving. Laurent sighed again. “I think he can be trusted, that’s why I gave it to him.”

“You mean that?” Damen said, surprised. “He seems—”

“I see a lot of myself in him,” said Laurent. “Crude, full of sass, and he’s not afraid to banter with authority. And he has fought for my side without a backward glance. He is with me.”

“The sword to your sheath…” Damen said quietly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It was something my father used to say: ‘If soldiers are swords, the king is the sheath that carries them.’ That’s all I meant. If you trust him then… I guess I should too.”

Laurent stared at Damen coldly. “Get some sleep.”

Damen walked to his bed and lay down. By now, he understood that Laurent’s mind was strategizing, always a few steps ahead. While Damen had been absorbed in the things that had happened to him in Vere, Laurent had been sidestepping schemes within the walls of his own palace. Laurent never stopped thinking and never took breaks, it seemed, but he would let Damen rest.

“By the way,” Laurent said before Damen fell asleep. “Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

Damen lay with his back turned, thinking about his answer. But what reason could he have to lie?

“No. Just my brother.”

“And did you say he died?”

“…No, I don’t believe I did,” Damen said. “Did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” Laurent said. “All you said was that you couldn’t trust him. I can’t say I envy you that. It’s no better than having your brother killed. Go to sleep now.”

Damen lied awake for another few minutes, eyes wide, while he thought about Laurent’s words. His brother Kastor… would he rather have the man dead or be betrayed by him? Well, betrayal had already happened. That’s how he ended up in Vere with a new identity in the first place.

Finally exhaustion pulled him into sleep. Laurent watched the rise and fall of his chest for a while, but the moment Damen began to snore, he rolled his eyes and picked up his reports. He read them long into the night, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where his brother’s charm used to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, that's the end.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
